


Preparation for Something That Will Never Happen

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Don't Call Me Brave [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, It's Grantaire, M/M, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things hit you.<br/>Love had crept up slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preparation for Something That Will Never Happen

Some things hit you.  
A fist is usually expected, you see it coming even if you don't have a chance to react. You know there's a punch coming toward you before you even feel knuckles against bone, before you're spitting out teeth and blood's dripping from your split lip, you knew what was coming, and it stays with you in black eyes and scrapes and that one molar that's probably under a floorboard in some bar somewhere.  
Death is always unexpected, even when you know it's coming. You can watch someone ail as long as you want but when the last breath leaves their body you'd never be expecting their chest not to move. It's a ton of bricks suddenly coming down out of nowhere and ripping at you.  
Dependence sneaks up on you with a vague awareness. You don't think you're really becoming addicted even as you pour whiskey into your morning coffee just to get through the day, but at the back of your mind something's telling you that somewhere along the line you've screwed up.  
Love, love had crept up slowly, building from an initial seed, initial admiration and wonder, and growing, wrapping itself around his heart and his lungs and every organ until he felt unable to function properly without this being. And yet, despite his sudden realisation, sudden admittance one morning over a cup of black coffee and last night’s leftovers, some part of him felt it had been there, that he'd known, all along.  
Maybe he should blame Combeferre; it had after all been at his suggestion that he attended the meetings. Then again he also probably shouldn’t have been writing notes in a library book crassly undermining the author’s arguments. But then he knew the cafe, and the idea intrigued him, and Combeferre could be persuasive if he wanted to be.  
Enjolras was defiantly persuasive. Grantaire had settled himself with a double whiskey amongst a rag tag group, he'd arrived just a little late but that had already made him unpopular with the leader. Introductions are simple, there's Combeferre of course, and Courfeyrac - a bundle of jokes and laughter who plonks himself next to Grantaire right at the start and doesn't leave for the rest of the evening. Then there's Bossuet, who Grantaire has already seen trip over his chair once and has now cut himself on a leaflet. Finally there's Joly, medical student and apparently full of worries as he's now fussing over the tiny little cut.  
He probably should listen to what Enjolras is saying, and he is really, but he's also just listening to his voice, the rises and falls, the tone of authority, the slightly angelic edge to it, the way his lips form around words and how his body says just as much in clenched fingers and a set jaw.  
That's pretty much how every meeting after that progresses. Grantaire's usually late; he'll arrive with a drink, top it up from his flask, listen to an angels voice, watch Apollo, intersect with a snarky comment, rinse and repeat.  
He soon realises that's the only time Enjolras pays him attention - when he's being cynical and difficult. And, despite the glare, he treasures those little moments where it seems the pair are the only ones in the room.  
And so it progresses. Through drinks with friends and being dragged to Courfeyrac’s and sitting around the Musain. They're never friends, they always argue, he's always met with some form of disdain, and yet slowly he falls for his Apollo. Falls for his passion, for his conviction, then falls for the man he gets to know through Enjolras's conversations with others.  
He hates himself for it.  
Hates his heart for falling for someone like Enjolras, hates his brain for just letting it happen. Hates his being, so desperate for one being that he takes anything he gets. He's inky, he's tar and dirt and green-black grime that will taint the red and gold, shining, burning passion stained beneath his fingertips. It overflows at first, into too many drinks and salty streams and waking up in the morning on the bathroom floor, mouth still sour and head pounding.  
It hurts, it squeezes and what should feel like butterflies feel more like leaded weights and he drinks more to dissolve them. And because he drinks more he talks more and because he talks more Enjolras's distain for him grows. So he drinks more.  
Eventually he gets used to it, as used to things as you can get, and becomes numb. Things are sometimes easy; sometimes they're so hard he bleeds out the tar, dripping. Sometimes he wanders aimlessly, always ending up in the same place, always staring at the window he knows to be Enjolras's, always moving on and ending up with Courfeyrac's arm around him downing tablets and water and collapsing on the sofa.  
It becomes regular routine; Courf knows what to look out for. He knows when Enjolras's comments have become too much for Grantaire, when to slip him his house key, when to take him out with him, when to talk, when to keep quiet.  
Grantaire needs that, as much as he doesn’t want to.  
Maybe that's why, after a night at Courfeyrac's with the rest of the group, he ends up curled against Feuilly, head resting on his arm. Maybe it was just to get some sort of closeness, subconsciously searching for something that meant nothing but felt like it did. And so he starts spending time at Bahorel and Feuillys too, because where Courf will talk to him the pair will just drink with him and make him watch rubbish films and he and Bahorel will cook and play cards and Feuilly will complain because he got no sleep, again, but will still do it all over again.  
He puts it into art. Sketches the same face over and over and can never quite get it right. His paintings turn abstract, the darkness contrasting with the red and clashing together, or else start off traditional and end up scrawled over and slashed in fits of despair.  
His flat is less home, more bottles and paint smears and an old mattress shoved into the corner that hasn't been made in weeks.  
Courf gives him free coffee if he looks dejected enough, strong black coffee that's probably doing him no good, not really, but it feels like it helps. He has his own stool in the cafe Courf works at, one where he can slump over the counter and talk to Courf as he moons over the poet in the corner until Grantaire mutters at him to get on with it already.  
Courf does, give him his due, and skips the next meeting to take the poet with the flowers out on a date.  
"Get out. You're nothing but a worthless drunk." He'd like to think there was something else there in the way Enjolras’ lips part then press together, but he doesn't stay long enough to find out. Courf gives him his keys again. He's passed out before Courf gets home.  
Grantaire likes Jehan, the poet. Likes him for his resilience, the way he notices things and studies things and the way neither of you need to say anything to have an in-depth conversation. They're more similar than Grantaire would want them to be, and Jehan writes poetry on his wrists and holds his hands and falls asleep on his chest.  
He wants to hate Courf for not facing up to his feelings, but it would be hypocritical. And so he has a bit of a shout at him, makes him coffee and nudges him in the right direction. And wonders why he can't do this for himself.  
Well, he knows why. Because Enjolras hates him, whereas Jehan and Courfeyrac love each other, and so speaking up will just hurt more than wondering. He sits and stares and tries to ignore the itch, because he's decided that if he doesn't drink maybe it'll be easier to grow closer to Enjolras. The others are good about it, he tells Courf and Jehan first then Bahorel and Feuilly and then Joly and Bossuet, because he needs someone medical to give him some support. They agree not to drink in meetings, even though he insists they don't have to do that, and to look after him should things take a turn for the worse.  
Alcohol has been his escape since he was 16 and he's been dependent since 18, he's not sure how he'll cope without it but he convinces himself everything will make up for it. He'll be less cynical, less pessimistic and irritable; he'll be noticed for the right reasons.  
He spends the first day at Courfs, Jehan stroking back his hair as he slumps over the toilet and pressing a cool flannel to his forehead while Courf gets him glasses of water. He begs them for a drink just 12 hours in, shaking against the wall. He would distract himself from the withdrawal, if his hands would stop trembling enough for him to hold a glass let alone a pen. He falls asleep in the bath mat.  
After the first day he ends up at Joly's, who'd come over the previous evening and decided, as his flat was nearer the hospital, it'd be better for Grantaire to be there. Chetta is great with him, cool fingers skimming his forehead as he shivers; his stomach has long since been emptied. Joly checks up on him in his lunch break, saying he's doing well and that he'll feel better if he sleeps. He manages an hour at a time, Joly sleeps with him in the spare room, but he's always been too nervous about medical matters. But he's right, he feels a little better by Friday evening, and when everyone turns up at the little flat he curls up on the floor, wrapped in a blanket as the rest talk. His hands shake a little, and he falls asleep twice, head pounding as he jerks awake. Jehan crouches next to him and asks if he wants to head to bed, softly brushing his forehead. That's when Enjolras steps in with a scathing comment.  
"If you were just going to turn up drunk then you needn’t have bothered."  
Jehan goes to open his mouth, but Grantaire raises a hand to shush him.  
"That's what you think?"  
"It's all you ever seem to do. I don't know why you bother."  
"No. Neither do I." He mutters bitterly, pushing himself up with the wall and leaning on it heavily as he sways. "Very well, I'm going home."  
"Do you want-" Courf begins.  
"No, I'm going home." Grantaire repeats, swallowing hard. He's out of the door before anyone else can say anything, and he hears Jehan's voice somewhere in the background.  
As the first shot goes down his throat the last three days go out of his mind, at the second the shakes calm, but the words haven't disappeared. There's a small pile of glasses in front of him and the bartender is giving him a look as he slumps his head against the wood.  
He can't bring himself to get drunk. Despite the new drink in his hand all he's doing is twisting the glass, watching ice melt.  
Part of him feels bad, for putting his friends through that and then just giving up when things got a little tough. Another part is just angry, at Enjolras, at himself, at his feelings, at the damn ache in his head and the feeling in his stomach and the lump in his throat.  
Grantaire leans heavily on the sink, staring at the mirror with its scratched out graffiti. He looks shot, skin pinched and dull, eyes darkened and puffy from the lack of sleep, his hair is lank and he can't quite stand up properly. His stomach rolls and he's back at the toilet, pushing his hair back as best he can as the waves of nausea run through him.  
He needs to get out of here. The place feels too crowded, too loud and warm and claustrophobic. His eyes can't stay still. The light's too blue.  
Grantaire splashes his face in an attempt to clear the thoughts that are spinning and threating to assault his stomach again.  
He swills out his mouth, swallows and lets out a shaky breath, watching his eyes all the while.  
Maybe if this was a film there'd be conviction in their depths, determination to sort out where he's been wronged. But this is reality, so there's no such emotion, just dull tired eyes staring out from numbed depths.  
Grantaire leaves unsure if he'll be able to make it home.

**Author's Note:**

> "Life is a long preparation for something that never happens." - W. B. Yeats


End file.
